Lashes
by Rasiaa
Summary: "It amuses me to beat you until you're ready to bleed out, and it makes it better that you come willingly and consent so quickly because of your sick, twisted masochism, but keep your head straight: You have not got a friend in me."


_For "The Card Will Tell Your Fate Challenge" on the HPFC forum. _

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It was destructive and he knew it, but, for some reason, he couldn't bear to make it stop. George knew, of course he did, and frequently tried to talk him out of this self-destructive behavior, but he would break his promises to stop every damn time. He had no idea why George kept trying. It couldn't possibly be worth all of the disappointment.

He sighed and leaned against the wall, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath before he turned and walked into the secret passage. The silent halls of Hogwarts School seemed far away somehow, like he hadn't just left them. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, half in hope that an onlooker wouldn't see him in the dark of the night, half for the comfort the homemade cloth brought him. Oh, his mother would break if she knew.

"You're late," the voice scolded, and he found himself on his knees a moment later, the crack of his kneecaps sounding too loud in his ears. He sat on his knees, dazed, as she walked up to meet him, her boots clicking against the stone of the floor as loud as a whip.

He didn't look up to face the woman in front of him. Instead, all he muttered was a quick apology. The woman scoffed. "Don't be sorry, don't do it again."

"Yes, Mistress," he murmured, the word falling from his lips effortlessly, but leaving the tang of bittersweet betrayal on his tongue. A long-nailed hand hauled him up, and though she was shorter than he, he allowed himself to be made smaller by her violent, jerky movements as she dragged him down the hall and out of Hogwarts.

The night was cold and unbearably silent. She dragged him to an abandoned building on the outskirts of the forest, pushing him into the destroyed room with a clatter. She slammed the door behind herself and stripped herself of her cloak, letting it fall to the floor. He hurried to do the same, revealing his simple clothes that weren't anything out of the ordinary. She, however, dressed as a Dominatrix would, fish fishnet stockings and a short, leather dress that hardly covered her thighs. It was as flashy as her normal outfits, though in an entirely different way.

He was facing the wall, entirely unprepared when the first crack sounded and his shirt tore on his back and blood welled up. He let out a cry, but her hand was there in an instant, covering his mouth and nose with intense pressure until he nearly passed out. She released him and he fell to the floor, gasping and shuddering. "Poor baby," she cooed, wrapping her whip around his neck and simply resting it there, though he wasn't foolish enough to believe that she wouldn't pull it taut in a heartbeat if the mood struck her. "My dear Freddie, don't start crying this early. We've barely started," she whispered the words harshly in his ears, pressing the whip against his neck like he knew she would.

He groaned in response, and she pulled away but he remained on his knees, relaxing his muscles for the next flash of pain. First he felt the brush of rope around his wrists, and she bound his hands quickly and thoroughly. And the flash of pain came quickly after, as did the next and the next and the next. By the time she'd amused herself enough, there was hardly anything left of his shirt and what remained was soaked with blood that he could feel sliding down his back and hear dripping into the cracks of the floor.

She pressed her cold fingers into his back and he groaned, this time with pain, and he heard her laugh under her breath next to his ear. Her dark curls entered his line of fuzzy vision and he tried to focus on her face. She was hopelessly amused. A nail traced along his face, from his forehead to his chin, and she forced his face upward to seal her lips over his. He kissed back blindly, loving and hating this woman in equal measure.

Only she could bring him to this point with nothing but a piece of thin leather.

She pulled away and he groaned once more, only to receive a sharp slap across the face. His head snapped to the side and he didn't make a sound to protest the treatment, instead keeping his silence. "Don't think even for a moment that you have a friend in me, boy," she hissed. "Because you don't. It amuses me to beat you until you're ready to bleed out, and it makes it better that you come willingly and consent so quickly because of your sick, twisted masochism, but keep your head straight: You have not got a friend in me."

He closed his eyes. "Yes, Mistress."

"Get out of my sight," she commanded, turning and walking away, and he scrambled up to obey. He grabbed his cloak and didn't even have it fully on before he was out the door and into the darkness of the cold night.

He stumbled back to Hogwarts blindly, making his way through the grass and then the passage through luck alone. Pain thrummed in his head, blurring his vision and making it incredibly hard to walk. "Oh, Fred," a familiar voice sighed. George.

"I, ah…" he stuttered, falling onto his brother at the head of the passage. He felt George's arms come up around his shoulders as his twin guided him back to their dorm room.

They sat together on George's bed in the dorm, taking great care to keep quiet, even with the aid of a silencing charm. Nevertheless, every swipe of disinfectant across his whiplashes made him whimper with pain. Delirious, he sobbed with the effort to stay quiet. George rested one hand lightly over the wounds and wound a bandage around his chest, leaning his head against his unwounded shoulder when it was secure. "I wish you wouldn't do this," George whispered. "Or at least tell me who you go to."

He closed his eyes. George hated Bellatrix Lestrange with a dying passion, so how could he tell?


End file.
